


Piano in the Dark

by america_oreosandkitkats



Series: The Resolution of Our Elements [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Human & Country Names Used, Piano Sex, Post-Cold War reunions, and oil brings 'em all together, sidesteps all the problems of the 1990s in order to bring you Quality boning, the 1990s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 05:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9057178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/america_oreosandkitkats/pseuds/america_oreosandkitkats
Summary: But tonight was different. It might have been nothing more than the glamour of the evening, but tonight, she thinks, he had looked better. There was a liveliness in his demeanor, a charm to his voice. He had laughed and joked with her executives, even spoke politely with Kazakhstan. Later in the evening, one of those executives had mentioned to her the possibility of future production-sharing ventures within the country and Amelia almost dropped her drink.





	

_Piano in the Dark_

The moon above the Caspian is high and bright, but not nearly as beautiful to her as the blinking red lights from the oil rigs that hug the coastline and sink into the water, far on the horizon. It’s why she’s here after all—a joint venture between Chevron and the government of Kazakhstan. The party, which had ended hours ago, was to toast the venture’s success and to celebrate the first steps of post-Soviet progress.

She sits in the Hilton’s smoky lobby, curled up in an oversized chair near a window, and looks out to the sea (or lake, or whatever they’re calling it this week). It’s 1994, April, and the Cold War seems to be as far from everyone’s minds as Dodge, Kansas is to this land blessed with black gold.

Through the dull drone of the tinny radio and the incoherent chatter of lingering, flushed guests, Amelia hears, of all things, the soft chime of a piano. She’s only had two flutes of champagne and is stone-cold sober, so she’s sure it isn’t her mind playing tricks on her. It seems like it’s coming from downstairs. She gathers her stilettos in one hand and the material of her dress, black, velvet and four-inches too long without her shoes, in the other.

Some turn to her, her brisk movement attracting their bleary-eyed attention. Others are in wide-eyed, stunned silence. Her Nationality sweeps across the room like lightning: dry, static, and almost crackling. Amelia Felicity Jones is, after all, the living heart and soul of the United States. As the world’s sole Superpower, the earth trembles with every step she takes.

On the other end of the corridor, she finds a spiral staircase and trots down it. The music, which is louder here, is that capital-R Romantic stuff she’s always had an appreciation for but never particularly liked. Louder still before the double doors of the hotel ballroom, notes roll across the keys like the rushing, babbling waters of a brook. She stops to listen and to bask in the subtle notion of a Nation dancing across her skin.

Every Nation State’s aura feels different. Russia, Ivan, reminds her of autumn rains in New York, sharp but exhilarating in its coolness. The sensation sends a jolt to the very pit of her stomach and raises the hairs on her arm.

The feeling is not as strong as it once had been, but there is still so much _power_ there. Amelia bites her lip with anticipation. When they have had more than an hour together since ’89, she can’t recall.

The door does not protest when she opens it.

It’s dark inside, save for the moonlight spilling onto the floor and the soft, amber glow from the lamp atop the piano. If Amelia has trouble getting a drink in some bars around her country, Ivan looks a few years into his thirties. In this lamplight, which blurs the lines around the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth, she can’t help but remember how he looked in those bygone years of Empire.

Her fingers idly grace the lines of her collarbone.

She wasn’t expecting to see Ivan tonight, truth be told, but apparently Serik, the Nation State of Kazakhstan, had invited him. Whether to parade her involvement right at Russia’s border in an act of humiliation or as a genuine offer of peace and cooperation, Amelia can’t say. She doesn’t know Serik all that well, but she figures it was the former. That doesn’t stop her from hoping it was the latter. America is nothing if not an optimistic country.

The music stops as Ivan is caught in a wave of coughs. Amelia stands a little straighter, almost reaches for him, but in a moment, he collects himself. He mutters something in Russian she can’t quite hear and goes on as if nothing had happened.

His skin is pale even for him, and the bags under his eyes are heavy. She grimaces. The transition has been, in a word, hard to watch. No, that’s cruel in its simplicity. Watching the transition from command economy to open markets, from autocracy to democracy, has been heart-wrenching and frustrating. She had called him and told him just as much. He had lost so much weight, his cheeks hollow and hands weak.

But tonight was different. It might have been nothing more than the glamor of the evening, but tonight, she thinks, he had looked _better_. There was a liveliness in his demeanor, a charm to his voice. He had laughed and joked with her executives, even spoke politely with Serik. Later in the evening, one of those executives had mentioned to her the possibility of future production-sharing ventures within the country and Amelia almost dropped her drink.

Ivan has abandoned both his blazer and his tie now, draped the things of navy blue over the piano’s lid.

The shirt he wears is pressed and white; a few buttons on top are undone and a tuft of hair peeks above the collar of his undershirt. She can just make out the thick, pale lines that twist around his neck like fingers—those ancient unmentionables he tries his damndest to keep hidden from the world. She does not linger on them.

He’s rolled his sleeves to mid-arm, taut muscles contracting with each strike of a ringing, resonant chord. His hair, sandy-blond and a bit too long in the back, falls into his eyes.

Yeah. He’s looking better.

Amelia indulges in the warm sensation that snakes around her stomach. She might be _the United States_ , but she is still a red-blooded young _woman_ , and seeing him there in this light, playing that music almost makes her sigh. Almost.

Her stilettos slip from her grasp. She swears as they clatter against the tile. Ivan flinches and the music stops. He immediately reaches for his collar and presses the ends together.

“Oh, don’t stop on account of me, Piano Man,” Amelia drawls. She kicks the shoes to the side.

Ivan squints into the darkness. “America?”

She shrinks a little at that, runs a hand through her hair. Even after all the talks and celebrations of partnership and “moving forward” into this new and peaceful era, he still uses such formal, distant titles.

She picks up her skirt, leg peeking out from the mid-thigh slit and crosses the ballroom. “Now, I don’t know about you, _Russia_ —” she sinks into his name for dramatic effect “—but I don’t see any politicians around.”

He quickly fastens the top button with one hand and hums in agreeance. “It’s just me.”

She’s in the light now, at the side of the piano and leans into it on her elbow. “Then call me by my _name_ ,” she implores.

Ivan fixes up the other buttons he’s unfastened. Without his tie, he looks ridiculous with the shirt done all the way like that, but…she won’t disparage him. Those scars run deep.

“Old habits,” he concedes, holding out a free hand.

Ivan’s voice has always reminded Amelia of a bass’ tone: deep and melodic and something best listened to when curled up on a couch on a rainy day. But what she’s always been drawn to, and what she finds herself lost in again, is his eyes.

Ivan Braginskiy probably has the strangest, most compelling eyes of any person, any Nation, Amelia has ever known. They’re wide and the irises are the color of a hyacinth flower, mostly violet with some flecks of blue in the right light. During their first encounter, at a state dinner in Petersburg just after her war of independence, she spent the majority of the evening staring across the table at him, trying to catch a glimpse of that peculiar, enticing shade in the candlelight.

She realizes now that she’s staring.

Amelia clears her throat loudly, breaks her gaze and takes a small step away from him. “What’s got you up playing Beethoven in the middle of the night anyway?” she asks, making idle circles in the piano’s surface.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says with a finality that tells her he has no desire to expound upon that. “There are other composers than Beethoven, you know that, right?”

She shrugs and brushes his question off. “If it’s not John Williams, I don’t care.”

Ivan snorts, which makes Amelia raise her eyebrow. Mildly irritated, she asks, “What?”

“You haven’t changed. And it’s Rachmaninov by the way.”

Amelia clicks her tongue and asks rather obnoxiously, “And who’s the _unchanging_ one now?”

“Still you.”

“How?”

“Walking around hallways in the middle of the night, curious and impulsive as a cat.” Ivan looks at her again with a small but earnest smile. A sweet feeling unfurls in her.

“I’m not impulsive.”

Ivan laughs. It’s a note of disbelief rather than amusement. “You are without a doubt the most impulsive Nation—no, _person_ , I have ever known, Amelia Jones.”

Somehow, she had forgotten how ornate her very common name sounded coming from him. Her words catch in her throat.

Ivan drops his gaze and rattles off a few syncopated notes to fill the growing silence. She leans on the piano with her forearms, and the gold trim around her neckline glimmers in the light. He steals a glance at it and her cleavage and she grins, satisfied, but doesn’t say anything.

No one has ever accused Amelia Jones of being overly-burdened by prudence, but she can’t quite justify breaking the quiet with the things that are actually on her mind: _We made it through to the other side. We’ve got a lot of work to do now, good work, but I’m glad we can do it together._

_I missed you._

She can say these things in four languages and even sign it, but instead she picks at the cuticle of her thumb, careful not to chip the red polish.

She looks up at him, and he at her. Ivan’s expression is torn up in ambiguity too. Amelia sighs through her nose.

“Scoot over,” she instructs. And he does.

The piano bench is small and Ivan is a large man, but Amelia slips into the space and seems to fit just fine. When their arms brush against one another, Amelia’s breath catches like she’s missed a step. It’s not entirely because of the nearness of their Nationalities.

He smells like tobacco and some expensive, spicy cologne; he smells like Moscow, 1989. She has to stop herself from nuzzling her face into his body, breathing. Remembering.

Instead, she clumsily splays her fingers across an octave. She’s been told she has hands meant for this instrument: long, crafty fingers and a sturdy palm. But she prefers the fiddle or the harmonica. Amelia knows how to play exactly two and a half songs on the piano, but because her mind is so foggy and light, only one comes to mind. Her fingers upon the keys are clumsy and forceful.

It takes Ivan a moment to place her song, but when he does, he laughs. It’s a full, genuine sound that makes her forget exactly where the floor meets her feet.

Ivan chuckles as he picks up the melody in the treble register. It’s a simple, silly little song, but he adds some syncopations, trills and seventh chords. It sounds like art. “Darling, it’s been fifty years and you _still_ only know how to play _Heart and Soul?_ ”

Her hands lock up and she slams into several keys. Somehow, it doesn’t seem as loud as her heart thundering in her chest. Darling.

“Keep knocking it, and I’ll break out _Chopsticks_ next.” She says this mostly to the keys.

“I can help you,” Ivan says. “The offer still stands.”

 

 _After declaring herself a right and true and independent nation, these new United States went on an envoy across the continent to present herself as a Nation among peers. She would be in Petersburg for a month, joining her delegation team that had been here for the past two years. Her first night in-country would be marked by a big state_ soiree _, with a level of pomp and circumstance she couldn’t quite wrap her head around._

_When the meal had broken and they had retired to a drawing room for drinks and further conversation, her Imperial Majesty Catherine II asked the United States if she might play something lovely for them on the pianoforte. Amelia could hardly breathe in the presence of someone who wielded such influence, let alone deny her request, so she approached the instrument and sat. The expressions of her diplomatic entourage varied from pale to pale green._

_She took a deep breath, thought of Bach and began. She stumbled through the piece as though she hadn’t been instructed how to play it for the past hundred or so years. She could hear the royal court tittering, which only served to make her clumsy hands shake more. Eventually Her Imperial Majesty, with a giggle, instructed her Nation State to rescue the poor girl._

_Russia (tall and broad and if he were just a citizen, in his mid-twenties) tried and failed to conceal his amusement as he approached the piano. She hitched her breath as gooseflesh raced across her skin and his Nationality brushed against hers. She lifted her hands from the keyboard._

_“You play very well,_ Mademoiselle Ameríque _,” the Empire said. There was irony, but no malice in his tone, and Amelia wouldn’t have taken it as such if she had even suspected it. She was truly that bad. “But perhaps, hmm…Bach is not your strongest?”_

 _Amelia purses her lips. “And people say you’re not diplomatic,_ Gospodin Rossiya _.”_

 _He paused and though his expression held good humor, he seemed confused by something. “Gahs-_ pah- _din,” he corrected with a strand of teasing. “The second o isn’t stressed.” Amelia rolled her eyes. He chuckled, though what amused him confounded her. Amelia’s cheeks prickled a bit._

_A baroness requested her Nation State play something by Clementi, and it just so happened that Russia knew precisely one piano solo by the man. Amelia switched places with him._

_Two realizations came to her then as he sank into the first chords. First, that he had not condescended to her for her lack of skill, nor had he reacted negatively to her sarcasm (brutishness and impertinence, England would have said). Second, that he was not at all the image of feral terror the other Nations had presented him as._

_She did not_ swoon, _but perhaps she did sigh louder than one would otherwise deem necessary._

_The noise was just enough to perk his attention. He looked at her with curiosity knitted in his brow and Amelia felt her cheeks burn. She waved him off in Russian._

_“You can speak_ en français _,” Russia said. “Or in English, if you’d like, but I understand it better than I speak it.” He said this last part in her native tongue._

_Amelia covered her mouth and looked away to hide the pathetic, endeared smile upon her face; his accent was, quite simply, the most darling thing she’d ever heard. She shook her head. “No, it’s alright. Russian is just fine.”_

_He struck an E-flat when it should have been an E and something changed in his demeanor. The next time he looked at her, his expression was softer, more genuine._

_“_ Kak y vas zovut? _” he asked. “What do your friends and allies call you, America?”_

_Amelia cleared her throat and rubbed the tip of her nose. Her shoe had become quite interesting, far less intense than his violet gaze. “Amelia,” she said. “A-and you?”_

_“Ivan,” he replied. She repeated it in her mind three times as her aunt had taught her, so as not to forget. Then she said it a few more times just because she liked the way it sounded._

_“_ Ochen’ priyatno, Ivan _,” she said with the smallest of curtsies._

_“It’s very nice to meet you too, Amelia,” he responded. “And while you’re here, if you’d like, I can help you with the pianoforte.”_

 

Amelia goes ahead and plays _Chopsticks_ anyway. She looks to Ivan and scoffs. “What, take your offer and lose my standing with Arthur as the world’s most culturally unsophisticated Nation State? I’ll pass, big guy, thanks.”

She stops. She pulls her hands into her lap and picks at her nails again.

Ivan presses his body into hers. It’s half comforting, half thrilling and Amelia isn’t entirely sure how she’s supposed to feel about that.

“You know he’s an idiot, right?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Whatever.”

An idiot, perhaps, but one whom she once called _father_ and prayed desperately for his attention and approval.

This is not where she wanted the conversation to go.

Amelia presses the C-note before her. She has no more songs.

A moment passes.

Ivan slips his hand into hers and lifts it from the keyboard. Her hand trembles at his gentle touch, her skin tingling. It’s like two violins striking a harmonic chord, a powerful resonance that stirs deep laden, but never forgotten emotions. He places his other hand atop of hers, and Amelia wills herself to look into his eyes. She almost reaches for the edge of the instrument to steady herself.

“You aren’t unsophisticated, Amelia,” Ivan says softly. “ _Misguided_ , yes, but never plain.” He caresses the back of her hand and she’s pretty sure she’s going to faint. His cologne and Nationality are making the earth spin too fast.

“A-and you’re very sweet,” she says, darting her eyes. She doesn’t even attempt to pull away from his hold. “ _Incredibly_ misinformed and wrong on _so_ many different levels, but…sweet.”

“You don’t trust my judgement?” He traces his fingertips along her arm and Amelia has to remind herself that although she is a Nation, her lungs still require air.

She shakes her head. “Absolutely not,” she breathes.

His hand travels up her back and settles in the middle. He catches a bit of bare skin and it sends a thrill across her body. She’ll be damned if she didn’t flutter her eyes. He presses a bit into her, encouraging her to come closer. She does and places a hand on his thigh.

“It seems we’ve reached an impasse then,” he murmurs. His breath tickles her face.

“Old habits, I guess,” she offers.

Ivan cups her face. He threads his fingers through her honey-colored hair and runs his thumb across her cheek. The bench beneath them could disappear and it wouldn’t matter, because Amelia is fairly certain that she’s floating.

She leans into his touch—warm, still a bit calloused—and covers his hand with her own. The golden light makes the violet in his eyes even bolder. She commits that shade to memory.

A lump gathers in her throat. _I missed you._

Even if she opened her mouth to say the words, she is certain that the audible beating of her heart would drown out her voice.

Ivan leans in slightly. His forehead presses into hers.

“Amelia…”

She presses a finger to his mouth and quiets him with a hush. He presses his lips against that finger, and the spark that had been ignited earlier catches.

“You’re shaking,” she whispers. He doesn’t clarify.

But he does close the distance between them, placing his lips to hers.

And now, Amelia finally sighs.

She opens her mouth and meets his tongue. He tastes like tobacco and brandy. As his hands scale her back with all the delicateness and proficiency as he had done along the piano’s keys, she tangles her fingers in his hair and brings him closer. Her stomach flips and she almost yelps as she leans over the bench’s end.

But Ivan pulls her back. He wraps his arms tight around her waist and with a slight hitch, lifts the two of them to their feet.

And in one, two stumbling steps, Amelia guides him to the piano’s side. Even though she is quite tall herself, he still has a few inches on her; to kiss him like this puts a great strain on her neck. So, she pulls away for just a moment and hops onto the piano’s edge.

He settles in between her legs and kisses her mouth once again. She crosses her ankles, caging him in place, while his hand travels up her bare thigh and under her dress, meeting the lacy material of her thong.

She hums. Much better.

There’s a spot, just below her jawline and near her pulse point—he circles it with his tongue and nips it. Her breath catches and a shiver runs through her. She grips his hair. Amelia feels him laugh more than she hears it.

“What?” she asks.

“You haven’t changed,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “Mila.”

A small sound on the border of surprise and delight escapes from her. The Russian word for _sweet_ is _milaya_ in its feminine form, and no matter how hard he tried back then, Ivan could never quite get the soft-i sound in _Millie_. So, he settled for something in between. He hasn’t called her that since ’32, and to be honest, Amelia was quite certain she would never hear it from him again, a nickname for a simpler time. That he uses it now makes her heart light and whole again. It’s like gold slipping in between the cracks; Kiku calls it _kintsugi._

Ivan’s lips graze against the place on her neck again and she’s breathless.

When he kisses her mouth again, Amelia pulls him toward her, against her, closer to her. He lays her across the piano top with a tenderness his size belies.

Amelia adjusts the skirt of the dress—hikes it up and pulls it to the side so that the material falls around her naked legs. His wool pants and leather belt are rough against the insides of her thighs.

They say Russia is one of the world’s coldest nations, but here, Amelia must politely disagree. He is warm, so warm, against her body, like the summer sun on the Plains.

The War is over.

It’s over.

It’s finally over.

He kisses her lips, her neck, the space above the swell of her breasts. He leans on the piano with one arm and, with his free hand, follows the lines of her body. Her nail knocks against the row of buttons that ought to be, should be anything but fastened. He starts to rock in a slow and steady rhythm that makes her hum and squeeze her legs around him.

Amelia remembers this. Yes, she remembers, she remembers.

She tugs at the shirt, untucks it, and grazes her fingertips across his stomach and the thatch of hair. Ivan’s always been soft around his middle. She told him to stop smoking and maybe cut back on the smetana, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens. He’s just as stubborn as she is. Her hand crosses a particular patch, and when he breathes a laugh against her lips, she can’t help but smile too.

He pulls away to look at her. To just look at her. He brushes a lock of hair behind her ear and the feeling that curls inside of her is not at all dissimilar to flight.

“Need help getting out of that, big guy?” she asks with a smirk, toying with the edge of his collar.

Like a candle caught in a draft, his expression falters.

Amelia perks. She opens her mouth to ask what’s wrong, but he catches her wrist. He presses his lips against her skin and keeps his eyes there, not on her. Not on her.

Amelia slips her hand from his grasp. Carefully, she pushes his bangs from his eyes and rakes her fingers through his hair and lingers at the back of his neck. She hardly strokes against his skin, but he twitches as if he’s been pricked by something sharp and cold.

“There’s a new one,” he mutters weakly.

Amelia snaps her hand back as if she burned it. Her heart skips a beat. _Oh_.

She spares him the indignity of asking where they came from or if they still hurt; she has her own suspicions about their origin and enough of her own scars to know that they never stop aching. Not really.

She presses into the side of his face, soundlessly compelling him to look at her. He does.

Those twilight eyes shine in the glow of the piano’s lamp, and he looks as though he’s about to say something else to her, to protest further.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. It’s the clearest set of words she’s said all night, and something in his disposition changes, but she can’t tell to what.

Amelia grasps his shirt and pulls him closer, closer, closer to her face. She kisses him. She burns with a hope that he will understand that she doesn’t care about his marks, that she has never cared about that which separates him from the others. She’s a Superpower as well and has her own crevices and lines that snake along her body in ways that the others will never, _can_ never have. She is as marked as Cain and she cannot find it within her soul to give a single, solitary damn that he is also.

There is a fervor in Ivan’s kisses that ignites sparks across her skin and deep within. He kisses her as though she might slip into the ether, like she’s a dream from which he will eventually, inevitably wake.

His fingertips grace the outside of her thigh, trace a curve just above her knee, and his fingernails graze the inside of her leg. She takes in a sharp breath through her teeth and arches into him as he touches her and drags the pad of his finger in achingly, wonderfully slow circles. She clutches his arm and moans.

“God, I missed you, Mila,” Ivan whispers.

Amelia turns to him and her cheek brushes against his. She cradles his face and brings his gaze to hers.

Since the announcement of _perestroika,_ the sentiments had been there, but they had been buried under missed opportunities and petty inconveniences and simply the steely silence that comes with mending decades-old wounds. But with three words, a simple admission, Ivan has managed to bring the ethereal into solid form. The lump in her throat is gone and her heart is full.

“I missed you too, Ivan,” she whispers back.

His expression tightens with apprehension and confusion. She sets her jaw.

How dare he look at her like that, as though his confession is the only one that is comprehensible, as though her feelings are nothing more than a ruse. If there is anything Amelia Jones has ever been accused of having too much of, it is sincerity. She can lie, cheat and steal with the best of them (she is a Nation after all) but her motivations are always clear, succinct—pure to the point of obscenity, Arthur had once said. Subterfuge has never been her strong point. She cares for him: a true, resounding statement without an ounce of pretense. And…

She always had. It’s a small revelation, coming to it no more difficult than turning over a shell to reveal its mother-of-pearl sheen, because it had always been there.

Amelia plays with the baby fine ends at the nape of his neck, in search of something else to say. Something that might break the root of this tension and convince him of her intentions still.

“Of course I missed you, Vanya.” Amelia shrugs a little and offers a small smile, “You were the only one who laughed at my jokes.”

Confusion gives way to bewilderment and Ivan makes a breathy sound that might be construed as a chuckle. She quirks an eyebrow—case and point.

“Your sense of humor is juvenile and abhorrent,” he says, like that explains or changes anything.

“And again, _you_ laughed at them.”

“I did,” he concedes. He laughs, low and sweet. “I did, no, you’re right.”

His grin breaks into that full-blown, dazzling smile the world so rarely sees and her heart flutters. “I did and I will, Milochka.” Before she can say anything else to him, Ivan dips down to kiss her mouth. It’s a deeper kiss, one where she completely loses the ability to make sense of what’s up or what’s down; all she is aware of is _him_ and this delicious ache that he unravels in her with careful _come hither_ motions.

He kneels before her and adds his mouth and tongue to the good work his fingers are already doing, and Amelia tosses her head back, gasping out a choked sort of sound. She threads her fingers through his soft hair and holds him tighter, tighter, _closer_. With his free hand, he takes hers; he laces their fingers together and she squeezes tight. Her breath is ragged and she is, all at once, so much bigger than her body and nothing more than Ivan’s steady, tempered, exact ministrations.

She cries out his name, cries out his name, cries out his name until her body is flushed and shuddering.

He keeps moving his tongue over her core as she rides the last waves of her pleasure until, oversensitive, she taps his head. “Hey! That’s enough, thanks.” It comes out husky and quiet and he kisses the inside of her thigh with a hum in response.

She presses into the small of his back with her heel, beckoning him up to her. Their noses almost brush against one another.

He rests on his forearms, caging her in warmth. His expression lies somewhere between a burning hunger and a delicate affection that she thinks might be, could be, has the possibility to be but can’t be… _love_. Her breath hitches and her heart beats to the sound of the question she won’t dare ask—did he ever stop loving her?

Amelia reaches for his collar. Her thumb traces over the top button and she can feel his pulse raging in his neck. She slides her thumb underneath the plastic and feels the stitching of its opening.

“You ok?” she asks, looking up into his eyes.

Ivan makes a sound in the affirmative. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

She watches him, noting carefully the tension in the corner of his eyes and twinges in his expression as she unfastens the button. And then the next. And the next.

Her eyes flit to the newly exposed skin. There are so many divots and ridges there that the skin puckers and hangs loose like a human twice his appeared age. There is a new scar among the vein-like tendrils around his neck: jagged, thick and awful. _What trouble did you get yourself into up in those mountains?_ She wants to ask.

Compassion, cold and soothing as a salve, touches her heart. The twin scars of pink she has just below her sternum and over her lower vertebrae (where a machete plunged and twisted into her in faraway jungles) ache.

He has Kandahar. She has Tet.

Amelia acknowledges the scar and respects his pain, but she does not linger or ponder over it.

Ivan shrugs out of the shirt, then pulls off his undershirt. Amelia runs her fingers along his torso; the hair on his chest tickles her. He’s stacked like a linebacker and no matter how many times she insists that that’s a compliment, he never takes it as such. There is so much more to his person and his body than the marks across his neck, and she would be struck down by the Good Lord Himself if she did not admit she missed his solid frame.

Ivan kisses her, bites her bottom lip as he finds the zipper on the side of her dress and pulls it down. He runs his hand down the ridges of her ribs as he peels the bodice of her dress down.

Her dress pools next to his shirt, making a small pile of black and white.

Just as he finds places along her naked body that make her shiver, Ivan finds other marks across her body: remnants that still hurt (will _always_ hurt as if they were carved the previous night) of what she’s committed in the name of containment and keeping the world safe for democracy.

She gropes for the smooth metal of his belt buckle and hastily fumbles with it. It clatters against the floor, a sharp sound that reminds her of cathedral bells ringing in a new hour.

Ivan kisses her once more and she guides him in. It’s just a little pinch, a moment of discomfort, but when he makes the right adjustments, the right shifts, and _fits_ into her, she curls back and sighs with pleasure.

The piano slides a little with their movements, but the stoppers around the wheels keep the instrument in place. It’s a fumbling kind of rhythm, one of trepidation but not of unease. It’s like returning to an old song, an old step even after years have passed. She kisses the soft valley between his neck and shoulders, her hair brushing against the scars but nothing more. She sinks her teeth into it. The sound he makes, the shiver creeping across his skin, makes her grin in delight.

There were so many nights when Amelia would roll over in bed and reach out to empty, cold space. The loneliness would seep into her bones and ache, yearning for what felt like the only other Nation in the world who didn’t demand she be more like the Continent. At one time, he had taken her as she was, no grand expectations, and _God_ if there wasn’t a simple happiness to that. But summer must always yield to winter, and all good things must eventually come to an end.

But he is here now.

Ivan shifts her hips again and with that, reaches some deep part of herself that makes her skin hot as the sun and her vision just as white. She curls her hand around his shoulder. She locks her ankles together and presses them into his back— _faster, there, right there, more, God_ more.

And she has no intention of leaving.

Amelia arches into him and she catches a glimpse out the wide ballroom window behind them. The moon reflects off of the glass-still sea. In a few hours, the sun will break across that horizon. The clouds will part and the sky will turn from blood red to a crisp and vibrant blue. The world, for all intents and purposes, is still intact and continues to spin upon its axis. The War is over.

He bucks into her once more and a new sensation sparks like a match. Her toes curl.

With each of his movements, the sensation grows and grows and grows until it consumes her entire self and all she can do is press her lips into his temple and whisper in his ear, _don’t stop_. Ivan pants, beads of sweat glistening across his forehead, and by the way he’s trembling, Amelia can tell that he’s close too. She squeezes around him and he shudders out a barely audible, _God_.

It’s so much like the way things were yet so incredibly different, because the saying is true: you can never go home, you can never go back—you can only move forward. As much as she would like to fall into a comfortable familiarity, she is not the woman she was in 1794 and he certainly is not the man he was in 1872. In spite of all that, she must admit that there’s a sort of thrill, tantalizing and titillating, in rediscovering each other, a wonder in recreating what _was_.

But there are no higher politics at play here right at this moment. Right here in this very room at this late hour, it’s just the two of them. It’s just Amelia and Ivan. Two people who haven’t seen each other, not in any real sense, for a painfully long time. His lips are on her neck again. He breathes _I’ve missed you, Amelia, I’ve missed you_ against her skin like it was a prayer or some sort of ancient incantation, and it must be working because that single string that keeps her tethered to this world is thin and fragile and just about to break.

Ivan shudders as he thrusts into her and the next breath she takes in is sharp and short, as though she’s breached those frigid waters outside.

It’s like a drip that falls somewhere deep in her belly and ripples across her body. She is anchored to him as those sensations rise and fall, fall, fall through her.

Like clouds floating along a sea-blue sky, something shifts softly in her and reality fades back into place. Ivan is heavy but warm above her, and his ragged breath tickles the shell of her ear. She traces the lines of his back, over taut muscle and through old, faded scars, some she’s sure she gave him herself. She hums as he kisses her temple and draws circles on the swell of her hip.

They stay like this for a whole moment, because they can. Time is as luxurious as gold, and they have so much of it now. It slips beyond them slowly like honey.

She feels him shift and when she opens her eyes, Ivan’s face is the first thing she sees. He is blotchy and red, his hair mussed, lips swollen and eyes as bright as nebulae. As far as Amelia is concerned, he is perfect. She curls a lock behind his ear. “Hey, you,” she purrs softly.

A grin tugs at the corner of Ivan’s lips. He dips down to place a feather-soft kiss on the tip of her nose. His bangs brush against her forehead.

“Hey, you.”

They make some adjustments as he comes out of her, and it’s only then that Amelia realizes the top of a piano was probably not the best place for her back to catch up on lost time.

He helps her sit up and slide off the instrument. He holds her hand to keep her balance (and because it just feels nice; he runs his thumb across her knuckles) as she steps into her dress and panties.

“Where’s your room?” he asks.

The zipper on the side makes an audible sound as she pulls it up. Amelia blows a fallen strand of hair from her face. “Fifth floor. Great view, too. That sea in the—”

“Lake,” Ivan interjects. He fixes his belt and gathers his shirts. He pulls the undershirt on in one fell swoop.

Amelia makes a face at him and narrows her eyes. “Are we really doing this? Right now?”

Ivan shrugs. “It _is_ a lake,” he reiterates blandly. He slips his arms through the sleeves but doesn’t bother fastening the buttons.

Amelia presses her lips together and sighs through her nose. “That is your battle to fight. Not mine. But, regardless, fifth floor is a good hike, and, honestly, I’m not feeling it.”

Ivan takes her by the hips. She plays with the hair on his arm. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re going to have trouble walking, Milochka?” Ivan’s tone is dripping with so much self-congratulation that Amelia rolls her eyes.

“I’m saying that it’s quarter after three and I’m _tired_ , Vanya.”

“Well, you’re in luck, because I’m on the ground floor,” he chuckles. He nuzzles the crown of her head and leaves a kiss there. “Stay with me tonight. Please.”

How exactly is she supposed to say no to that?

***

Ivan offers Amelia his arm for holding as they walk back to his room, and she gladly obliges. She indulges a bit in his nearness, in his scent. The revelation of this evening plays in the back of her mind like a gentle lull of waves crashing against the shore. She loves him now and had never really ever stopped. The sentiment had always been there, even in the more troubling times.

 

 _A single slice of light cut across the dark conference room. She shut the door behind her with a_ click _, and the darkness swallowed up the chatter and hum of bureaucrats and officials finalizing negotiations with Moscow. Amelia didn’t bother with the ceiling light; the red bulb from the secure line was plenty. She groped around the room for a chair until her fingers curled around the back of one and pulled it out. She sank into it with a sigh. Leaning on her elbows, she carded her hands through her hair. She would have taken off her shoes if they hadn’t been tossed away in some hallway hours ago._

_Her body ached, though not from economic maladies or political strife. No, this was the deep-seated, bone-pulsing burn that simply came from being awake for three days straight. Amelia Jones might have been the Nation of the United States, but her soul was still ensconced in a human body, one that needed more nourishment than filtered coffee and more sleep than fifteen minutes sprawled across a couch in the Oval Office._

_They had said that this was a victory for the country, for her personally. Not only had they skirted nuclear disaster with the Soviet Union, they did so saving more face than they hoped. They might have to give up a few missile pads in Turkey as concession, but no one would know. To the world, the Soviet Union blinked first and at the end of the day, that was all that really mattered._

_Cuba seventy years ago was a victory. Hell, Iwo Jima was a victory eventually. This didn’t feel much at all like a victory._

_Amelia took her glasses off, their weight somehow unbearable upon the bridge of her nose. She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes and pressed until colors broke across the darkness. Sleep would not come._

_Now what?_

_She reached for the phone in the center of the table and tapped a few numbers. Moscow was eight hours ahead of Washington, so it would be a little after ten in the morning there. She blearily gave the operator her credentials and the party she was trying to reach. A click answered her, and then three low beeps sounded. Amelia rubbed her brow._

_“Okay, Miss Jones, you are on a secure line with the Kremlin. Please hold for Mr. Braginskiy.” Amelia muttered her thanks._

_A cold feeling slithered up through her stomach and settled around her neck like a row of pearls. Her hands began to sweat._

_“_ Amérique _?”_

_She squeezed her eyes. Her heart clutched, but it didn’t hurt per se, because French was neutral. And if there was anything the world needed right at that moment, it was the balm of neutrality._

_“Mornin’,” Amelia drawled. She swore, cleared her throat and quickly amended with, “_ Bonjour _.”_

 _“_ Amérique, _why are you calling me? Isn’t it—”_

_“Quarter after two. Yeah.”_

_She heard a clink of some sort, like a glass tumbler being placed upon a wooden desk. She imagined it filled up to two fingers with clear, potent vodka. Russia liked it neat. She imagined something very similar resting on her own table but with two ice cubes to keep it cold and to water down the paint thinner he called a national liquor._

_“What do you want?” he asked._

_“I—”_

_“What else could you_ possibly _want,_ Amérique _?”_

_A jolt shot through her nerves and almost brought her to full alertness. She gripped the receiver._

_“I’m not calling about that,” Amelia snapped. “My guys are talking to yours. It’s out of our hands now.”_

_“Then what,_ Amérique _?” He said this through his teeth._

_She pressed her lips together. Maybe she should have listened to her baby brother Matt. He had said the next time she spontaneously decided to call Russia that she a) shouldn’t, but if she did anyway, she should b) jot down talking points and desired outcomes of the conversation. That should have deterred her from opening her mouth in the first place._

_But Amelia has the weakest impulse control of all of Them._

_“I’m hanging—”_

_“I called to see how you’re doing,” she blurted._

_The only reason why Amelia knew he hadn’t hung up is because the line didn’t click and the operator didn’t tell her that the call had ended. His breaths were deep and even, and her heart thundered against her chest. Shame, as thick as iron, pooled in her stomach. Dread for what Kennedy will say in response to this crept over her shoulders. This was beyond foolish._

_“I’m hanging up now.”_

_“_ Russie _—”_

 _“_ Au revoir _,_ Amérique _.”_

 _“_ Russie _, wait—” English tumbled from her lips like dam water “—wait one goddamn second, I swear to fucking God,_ please _.”_

_The line was deathly quiet again, but the red light continued to glow._

_“_ Quoi? _” Russia asked eventually._

_Amelia slowly released the breath that burned in her lungs. The feedback was like static in her ear._

_Amelia rubbed her forehead, on the one hand alleviating her growing tension headache and on the other, kneading the French back into her. “I-It’s just been a long two weeks. For everyone. I’m pretty sure I just saw Washington—”_

_“You called to tell me that you’re_ tired _?”_

_Amelia slammed her fist on the tabletop. “You’re such a fucking jackass sometimes, you know?”_

_“Oh,_ I’m _the asshole?”_

 _“Yes,_ Russie _. You are,” she hissed. He grunted and she heard that glass on wood_ clink _again. He sucked on his teeth, and she sighed in frustration. “Now, are you going to tell me how you’re holding up after all of this or what, hmm?”_

_“Why do you care?”_

_“Because if your government is anything like my government, and well, I mean it’s_ not _for obvious reasons, because that’s kind of the_ point _of all of this, but—”_

_“Get to the point.”_

_“Fuck you. You’ve got time. Your day never starts before eleven and don’t try to tell me otherwise.” English._

_The sound he made was not quite a breath._

  _He almost sounded…amused. Amelia felt something lift from her shoulders and she sank into the seat’s back. She swung the chair in small arches._

 _“Listen._ Russie _. No one’s really been talking to me in the last five days, not really anyway, and I have a feeling like it’s the same sad song on your side.”_

_Such a long, quiet moment passed that Amelia reached across the table and tapped the red light on the phone to make sure it was actually working._

_“I’m fine,” Russia said finally. She didn’t believe him for even a microsecond, but it was a start. It was something she can work with._

_She curled the cord around her index finger. “When was the last time you got any sleep?”_

_“...Friday.”_

_She spun the chair in a long arc and whistled. “You’re doing better than me, then.”_

_“It’s_ Sunday _, America.”_

_His tone had shifted. There was a sliver of concern buried under the contempt. Amelia sunk deeper into her chair and grasped the phone tighter._

_“I know, I know.”_

_“What are you eating?”_

_“There’s some coffee in the caff. I’m pretty sure it’s replaced all of my blood at this point. How about you?”_

_“I’m being fed.”_

_She wants to clarify that she means something other than kasha and sunflower seeds, but she bites her tongue._

_“But no one’s talking to you,” she said. She had intended it to be a question, but it sounded more like a statement of fact. One that Russia did not argue against._

_“No. Not really.”_

_Amelia could almost see him—hair falling in his eyes, dark circles carved beneath them, shoulders hunched over and a fatigue-laden hand shaking as he reached for a cigarette._

_Her own hand twitched forward as if she were reaching for something across the table (or maybe it was just fatigue tremors)._

_“Do you_ want _to talk?”_

_His sigh was long and deep and through his nose. “Yeah. I can do that.”_

***

The shirt Ivan offers for her to sleep in is blue with a screened design of the ASTP from a few years back, and she calls him a nerd affectionately as she slips it on. It’s big on him, so the edges hang above her knees like a dress. The material is billowy and soft, if not worn a bit on the shoulders, and smells like detergent mixed in with just a bit of _him._

Ivan doesn’t say anything back at her; he just leans upon the wall and watches. His gaze is warm and tender.

There will be time for grand emotional declarations. Not tomorrow, but someday and soon. All that’s left in the waning hours of the morning is sleep and gentle, quiet reunion.

The mattress is quite big and Ivan’s a large man, but Amelia snuggles next to him and seems to fit just fine. He wraps his arm around her waist and nuzzles his face along her neck. If she’s being completely honest with herself, more than anything else in the entire world, Amelia has missed this ( _to hold, and to simply be held_ ) the absolute most.

And the War, as they say, is finally, honestly, truly over.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this fic since the middle of November, which is why this is released on Christmas, but is sadly devoid of Christmas themes. 
> 
> I couldn't have done with without the tireless work of my betas, my friends [Miranda](http://221bdisneystreet.tumblr.com/) and [Cori](http://whiggitywhiggitymacabee.tumblr.com). Like I say on every one of my fics, they are amazing people and fantabulous friends. Please give them a follow, if you arne't already! I can't thank them enough :)
> 
> This is the song Ivan is playing when Amelia comes in for no other reason than I liked it: [Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/track/38EmZT3oWA6lJE0o4ajfG8) | [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exVFgbGRN-Q)
> 
> *rubs temples* Ok, now the fun stuff is out of the way. Where to even start with this one.
> 
> If you know anything about Russian/American relations and the absolute dumpster fire that was the 1990s, you're laughing through the tears at that last line.
> 
> I really tried to find a good year within the 1990s where a meeting like this would make sense. The Russia and the United States in the 1990s is a morass of…let’s be polite and say “problematic” messes that never really became stabilized until oil prices kicked back up in the late 90s/early 2000s. Just trust that Amelia is a bit of an unreliable narrator and they’re too busy just being around each other to notice the, again, let’s be polite “issues” of the 90s.
> 
>  ~~(I'm trying to find this really cool but old documentary I found a while ago on the collapse of the USSR. I assure you that when I find it, I'll get that URL up there.)~~  
>  EDIT: [Found it! :D](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhStxLABfMs) It's am old Frontline documentary, which aired right around the time Putin became president...the first time around. It's incredibly informative, even in its short hour run time. Now. Join me as we collectively drink to the missed opportunities and clusterfuck that was Russia in the 1990s. Gotdamn.
> 
> But hey! Speaking of oil! Hey, how about them Caspian Sea politics? The [“New Great Game,”](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B008UX89MK/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1) as they say. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, [the official designation of the Caspian is disputed between Russia and the Central Asian states](http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2015/09/owns-caspian-150906054015762.html). They say it is a sea; Russia maintains that it’s a lake. It seems finicky and hair-splitty, but the official designation of the Caspian determines ownership, especially with regards to deep sea drilling, and that means who controls the cash. It's something the US hasn't really picked a side regarding.
> 
> [Chevron and Kazakhstan began a product sharing venture back in 1993](http://factsanddetails.com/central-asia/Kazakhstan/sub8_4e/entry-4676.html%20) and I’m…pretty sure it’s still in operation.
> 
> Also, because I'm a giant nerd, I highly recommend [The Oil and the Glory: The Pursuit of Empire and Fortune on the Caspian Sea](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000W967HY/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1) if you're at all interested in Caspian politics. It's actually a really fun read. Very informative. Very entertaining. 10/10.
> 
> ASTP is the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project of 1975. America and Russia working together in space. Isn’t it just beautiful?


End file.
